The Drowning Man (9 page)

“Just a road trip,” Rutherford said. He did a half turn on his seat, lifted his glass, and sipped at the tea a moment. “Frankly, I needed time away from the office. Drove out to Denver to see how things are going, and decided on a side trip to the reservation. Haven't been here in a while, you know.”

Father John nodded. He was wondering when the provincial had last visited St. Francis Mission—not since he'd been here. They'd talked on the telephone, and once or twice Rutherford had sent one of his assistants to check on how things were going, usually after Father John's photo had been plastered over the television and newspapers in connection with some crime that had occurred on the reservation. The assistants had warned him about getting involved in unsavory matters, and he had told them he had no intention of turning away someone who needed help, no matter where it might lead. They'd both known where he stood. They'd also known that it was only a matter of time before he would be reassigned.

“Stay in the guesthouse for a while,” Father John said. “You can get a little rest.”

Father Ian shifted forward and stared past the provincial. “I've been telling him the same thing. Give him the chance to see what a great place this is, meet some of the people.” He slapped the palm of his hand against his thigh and turned to Rutherford. “Never know. You might decide to take an assignment here yourself.”

The provincial emitted a strangled laugh. “Tell you the truth, sometimes the idea of serving at an Indian mission sounds pretty good. Peaceful. Quiet. Surrounded by miles and miles of nothing. Yes, there are times, John”—he gave Father John a sideways look—“when I've thought about changing jobs with you. Put you in charge back in Milwaukee and I'll come out here and say Mass, teach religion classes, and organize volunteers to do the rest.”

Father John caught Ian's eye. So that's what the powers-that-be thought they did. No wonder a procession of assistants had left after a few months. Mission work had not been what they'd been led to believe. Except for Ian, who was like him, arriving at St. Francis fresh out of rehab and finding something unexpected to be sure, but something that had made him want to stay.

“Dinner's on.” Elena's voice burst over the sound of the door cracking open at the top of the stairs. Then the door slammed shut.

 

FATHER RUTHERFORD CARRIED
a mug of coffee into the living room and dropped his bulky weight onto the worn upholstered chair across from the sofa. He leaned back, emitted a long sigh, then crossed his legs and swung a polished black shoe toward the coffee table. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said. He'd had no idea the priests at St. Francis were living so well. “Excellent cook. Excellent food.”

“What can I say?” Father John took the end cushion on the sofa and sipped at his own coffee. “We eat like this every day,” he said after a moment. They'd had fried hamburger, mashed potatoes, and peas, and Elena had made a delicious rhubarb cobbler, and the coffee was strong and good. There was comfort in the old house, settling into evening. The faintest daylight glowed in the front window, the clock on the mantle ticked in the quiet. Elena had left an hour ago, her grandson honking for her in front, and Father Ian had gulped down a serving of cobbler and left for the religious education meeting.

“So you took a little side trip, Bill?” Father John reached around and flipped on the table lamp. A circle of yellow light flooded over the sofa and coffee table and lapped at the edge of the provincial's chair. “What, about four hundred miles out of the way?” Four hundred miles out of the way, he was thinking, to deliver the news that the pastor would be leaving for a new assignment.

Rutherford gave him a half smile over the top of his coffee mug. “How's Ian working out?”

Ian McCauley was working out fine, Father John told the man. It was the truth. He didn't take his eyes away from the provincial's. The mission and his new assistant were a good fit, the first assistant who seemed to belong, who wanted to stay.

“The drinking?”

“He's staying on the wagon.”

The provincial planted his polished shoes on the carpet, leaned forward, and set his mug on the coffee table. It made a dull thud. “You've been a good mentor for the man, John, a good superior. No doubt you've set a fine example.”

“The man made his own choice.”

Rutherford nodded. “As we all must. Tell me, have you thought about going back to teaching?”

There it was, the windup for the curveball. But he'd seen it coming, hadn't he? He'd had time to adjust his stance. “Have you?” Father John asked.

The other priest drew back into his chair and recrossed his legs. “Every day problems arise that I have no solution for. Problems I never anticipated and couldn't even imagine.” He shrugged. “I have positions I can't fill. Priests getting older, retiring, and there aren't enough young men to take their place. Sometimes I think the Society's dying out, John, after five hundred years. To be honest, there are days when I wish I had nothing to worry about except preparing the next lecture for a philosophy class.” He shifted toward Father John. “What about you? Don't tell me there aren't days you wish you were in front of a class again. You had a real gift for teaching, John. We all have an obligation to use the unique gifts God gave us, for the good of everyone else.”

“Where's this going, Bill?”

“Not where you might think.” The provincial turned away. He placed his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands between his knees. “I've left you here longer than usual.”
Three years longer
, Father John thought. “There are four or five other positions that I could place you in, but for the time being, I'd like you to stay here. I wouldn't want to put Ian in charge until I'm sure he's going to stay steady, and there's no one else at the moment begging for an assignment here.”

Father John could feel the tension inside him draining away. The future opened up ahead, the future he envisioned for himself at the mission.
The hardest part for you, son, is going to be that vow of obedience.
He could hear his father's voice in his head when he'd told his parents he intended to become a priest.
It's gonna be the killer. You think you're up to it?
He was up to it, he'd said. Of course, he was up to it. He wanted to be a priest, and obedience came with the territory. He would do whatever he was asked. But that was before St. Francis, before he'd come
home.
And now, sometimes in the middle of the night, he wondered how he'd ever be able to obey the order to leave.

“You won't be here forever,” Rutherford said, as if the man had seen into his thoughts.

“You drove four hundred miles to remind me?”

“To ask you a favor.” The massive head bobbed up and down, the puffy eyes slitted. “There's an elderly priest at the retirement house in Denver that I'd like to send here for a while. A couple of months, maybe. He can make a retreat here. I figure he could stay at the guesthouse.”

“You don't need my permission.”

“He's not in good health, John. Eighty-two years old. Two, three heart attacks in the last couple of years, several surgeries. They've taken their toll. Bottom line is, the man's dying. Nevertheless, he manages to get around. He needs a lot of rest, but he's not an invalid. Perhaps he could even help out a little. I imagine you could find a few easy tasks to keep him busy.”

“Who is he?”

“Lloyd Elsner. Know him?”

Father John shook his head. It had been years since he'd attended meetings or been in large groups of Jesuits. There were a lot of fellow Jesuits he didn't know.

Rutherford gripped the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “I'll call the retirement home and have them arrange to fly Lloyd to Riverton. If you don't mind, think I'll turn in. It's a long, boring drive up here. Not much to see.”

“You don't like driving through the wide-open spaces?”

Rutherford moved toward the doorway, then turned back. “I'm glad you do,” he said.

STATE OF WYOMING
v.
Travis Birdsong.
Charge: Murder, first degree. The Honorable Mason Harding presiding. Michael Deaver, prosecutor. Harry Gruenwald, defense.

Vicky flipped through the court transcript, glancing down the pages to get the gist of what had happened. The defense attorney, Harry Gruenwald, had intended to file an appeal. Otherwise, he wouldn't have ordered the copy of the transcript. Yet Amos said that no appeal had been filed.

It had surprised her how thin the transcript was when Annie dropped it on her desk this morning. Now she saw the brief statements, the few witnesses, and the hurried examinations. Murder trials were usually more complicated—witness after witness, a methodical introduction of evidence. But Travis Birdsong's trial had lasted only a day and a half. The jury reached the verdict in two hours. The evidence must not have been strong enough for a murder conviction, so Travis was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, a crime of passion. There was a hurried sense, almost like an odor, lifting off the pages, as if Travis had certainly been guilty of
something.

The phone was ringing again in the outer office. It had been ringing all day. Routine matters that probably went to Roger Hurst, the new associate. Important matters, like the proposal for the BLM that would protect Red Cliff Canyon—those were the matters that she and Adam handled. They were building the kind of practice Adam wanted. They both wanted, she reminded herself. She'd finished the proposal a few minutes ago and e-mailed the copy to members of the Joint Council.

Now she thumbed backward through the transcript of Travis Birdsong's trial until she came to the prosecutor's opening statements. Michael Deaver, assistant prosecuting attorney seven years ago, elected county and prosecuting attorney last fall. She'd faced the man in court numerous times. He was tenacious and confident. And he could be brutal, like a predator waiting to tear to pieces the testimony of any witness who gave any hint of stumbling. In the cases she'd defended against Deaver—burglary, assault, fraud—she'd sat on the edge of her chair, ready to jump to her feet and object to his tactics. She'd won a number of cases, and Deaver was not the kind of prosecutor who appreciated losing. She could imagine the way he had commanded the space between the prosecutor's table and the bench at Travis's trial, shooting pointed glances at the jury, the spectators, the defendant, everything in his tone and manner affirming that Travis Birdsong was guilty of murder, no question.

 

Members of the jury, the state will show beyond a reasonable doubt, indeed beyond any doubt whatsoever, that the defendant pointed a shotgun at the victim, Raymond Trublood, a man who had been his friend, a man who had trusted him. The defendant pulled the trigger, firing the shot that ended his friend's life. We will produce the evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…

 

Vicky paged through the rest of it. She could almost hear his voice, rising at certain points—
beyond any doubt whatsoever
—and lowering to a whisper at just the right moment—
a man who had trusted him.
Oh, he was good, Deaver.

She read through the testimony of Deaver's first witness, Mrs. Marjorie Taylor, owner of the Taylor Ranch.

 

Deaver: Mrs. Taylor, please tell the court of your association with Travis Birdsong and the victim.

Taylor: I hired them. They worked for me, both those Indians. They came around in the fall, said they were looking for cowboying work. Well, they looked sturdy enough and they had some okay references, so we decided to take them on, give them a chance, you know. We're always trying to help out the Indians around here, those that want to work.

Deaver: When you say, “we,” who do you mean?

Taylor: Andy Lyle, my foreman. Been with me for going on ten years now, ever since my husband died. Couldn't run the ranch without Andy. About the time the Indians showed up, we'd bought a Hereford bull since we were looking to increase our herd. So we figured a couple extra hands could help out.

Deaver: Was it unusual for two men to apply together for work on the ranch?

Taylor: We didn't make anything of it. They were friends, they said. Worked on a ranch south of Lander the year before. Guess they liked working together.

Deaver: Birdsong and Trublood didn't get along very well, did they?

Taylor: Well, they got in a big fight day before the murder. Raymond was beating the you-know-what out of Travis. I yelled for Andy and he broke them up. I told them, any more of that and they were going to be off the ranch.

 

Vicky pulled a yellow highlighter out of the desk drawer and made a long, yellow smear across the question. “Leading question,” she said out loud. Where was Harry Gruenwald? He should have objected; then the judge would have asked Deaver to rephrase.

Deaver: What were they fighting about?

“Object, Gruenwald.” Out loud again, as if the defense attorney were in the office.

 

Taylor: About money, what else? They stole that petroglyph, and they got into a fight over the money they got.

Gruenwald: Objection. This is hearsay and conjecture, Your Honor.

Judge: Sustained. The jury will disregard. Mr. Deaver, you're on a fishing expedition. You will confine your questions to the matter before this court.

Deaver: Your Honor, it is a fact that a petroglyph was recently stolen from Red Cliff Canyon. Chips and rocks identified as having come from the rock of the petroglyph were found in the victim's pickup. The theft goes to the defendant's motive for shooting Mr. Trublood.

Judge: The defendant was not charged, Mr. Deaver. Stay on track.

Deaver: Mrs. Taylor, please tell the court what you saw the following day.

Taylor: Yeah, that day I'll never forget. I was working in the office up by the house when I heard a gunshot. “Jesus,” I said to myself. “One of those Indians went and shot the other.” So I ran out of the office down the road to the barn because I knew Raymond had been shoeing horses in the corral right next to the barn. I saw Andy running ahead. He was already in the barn when I got there. Right inside the door, there was Raymond on the ground, a big hole in his stomach. I've seen enough varmints get hit with a shotgun. I knew the Indian was dead. Laying next to him was the shotgun that we kept in the barn. Andy says, “I seen the bastard. I'll get him,” and he takes off running. I ran back to the office and called the sheriff. Next thing I know, here comes Andy with Travis. I mean he's got that Indian by the arm and there wasn't any way he was going to run off again.

Deaver: Your witness, Mr. Gruenwald.

Gruenwald: No questions.

 

No questions? Vicky ran the highlighter over the words, pressing so hard that the print turned orange. She skipped past the next few lines: Andy Lyle called to the stand. Sworn in. States his name and says he is the foreman at the Taylor Ranch.

 

Deaver: Mr. Lyle, please tell the court what you witnessed on the day of the murder.

Lyle: Well, it's just like Marjorie, Mrs. Taylor, says. I was bringing a couple of horses to the corral when I heard the gunshot. I jumped off my horse and went running for the barn. Just as I got to the door, Travis there comes running out, and he's going, I mean, a hundred miles an hour, like he can't get away fast enough.

Gruenwald: Objection.

Judge: Stick to the facts, Mr. Lyle.

Lyle: Okay. Fact is, I seen him running out of the barn fast. So I went after him and brought him back. Sheriff's deputies were there. They arrested him.

Deaver: Your witness.

Gruenwald: No questions, Your Honor.

 

Vicky could feel the frustration bubbling inside her. She skipped through the testimony of other witnesses: the deputy who took Travis into custody, the man from the Wyoming Crime Unit who said the fingerprints found on the gun stock matched those of Travis Birdsong. It was like watching planks set into place until, finally, the side of a barn loomed in front of her.

Now it was Gruenwald's turn to present the defense. She'd met the man on only one occasion, shortly after she'd left the firm in Denver and moved to Lander to open a one-woman law office. She'd made a point of visiting other lawyers in Lander and Riverton, introducing herself, chatting a little, saying she'd just stopped by to meet them, and all of them knowing she was angling for a referral now and then. Gruenwald was a year beyond Travis Birdsong's case then, a large, shambling man, she remembered, in rumpled slacks and shirt, the miniature silver buffalo head of his bolo tie bobbing on his chest. He had moist hands that gripped both of hers, and he'd told her he was glad to meet her. Should she ever need advice on how to handle a case, she shouldn't hesitate to call. He'd had…what was it? Thirty-five, forty years' experience? Knew all the judges in the county, knew the prosecutors, too, knew his way around. Knew how to get things done in these parts. Shortly afterward, she'd heard that he'd left town.

 

Gruenwald: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, Travis Birdsong, is an honest and hardworking Indian, never been in trouble in his life. I intend to offer evidence which will prove that Mr. Birdsong is an upright citizen and an ethical man. The evidence will show that Mr. Birdsong would never have committed such a heinous act.

 

Vicky stared at the typed words, forcing herself to believe what she was reading. Why didn't he focus on the fact that the prosecution would be unable to prove the charge beyond a reasonable doubt? He could raise some significant issues: How much time had elapsed before Lyle had reached the barn after hearing the shotgun blast? Any blood spatter in the barn? Blood spatter on Travis? Where was a ballistics test on Travis? Where was the evidence that he'd recently fired the gun? How was it that Lyle had seen Travis exit the barn, but Marjorie Taylor did not see him?

But Gruenwald hadn't raised any of those issues. Instead, he'd said:
I would like to begin by calling Mr. Amos Walking Bear, my client's grandfather.

 

Walking Bear. God, the elder had been carrying a heavy burden for seven years. He'd testified on behalf of his grandson, sure that he was helping him.

 

Gruenwald: Mr. Walking Bear, tell the court the nature of your relationship with Travis Birdsong.

Walking Bear: Travis is my grandson, my daughter's boy.

Gruenwald: Will you describe his character?

Deaver: Your Honor!

Gruenwald: If it pleases the court, my defense of Mr. Birdsong
rests upon the man's proven character, and his grandfather is in a position to testify about this from his own experience.

Deaver: Mr. Walking Bear was not present on the day in question.

Judge: I'm inclined to go along with you, Mr. Gruenwald, but don't step out of bounds.

Walking Bear: I've known Travis since the day he was born. His mother, that's my Emma, had him right there in the living room. My wife and two friends took care of everything. Emma and the baby stayed on with us. After my wife died and Emma was killed in a car accident, there was just me and the boy. He was ten years old. I always taught him the Arapaho Way best I could. That boy knew right from wrong. He had good character. No way could Travis shoot Raymond. No way. Travis had a hard time even pulling the trigger on varmints, even though sometimes he had to.

Gruenwald: Nothing further, Your Honor.

Judge: Mr. Deaver?

Deaver: You taught Travis the Arapaho Way.

Walking Bear: Yes, sir.

Deaver: And what might that be?

Walking Bear: To live with honor so he can walk upright like a man that don't have any heavy loads weighing him down. Think about what he was doing. Be thoughtful in everything. Don't hurt nobody. Don't kill nobody. Make the people proud.

Deaver: I see. And when did Travis leave your home?

Walking Bear: After he got out of high school, he went out and started cowboying. Worked at a couple of ranches around the area before he hired on with Mrs. Taylor.